


comfort and joy

by sublime_jumbles



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (kinda), Boys In Love, Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Cuddling & Snuggling, Feeding, Fluff, Hand Feeding, M/M, Post-Canon, Sleepy Cuddles, Viktor Nikiforov is a Huge Sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9123826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: The Japanese restaurant with the most stars on Yelp doesn't open until eleven, but that's all right. Yuuri is still sleeping soundly then, as Viktor gets up, gets dressed with the silent speed of a quick change, and scrawls a note in hasty English on a slip of hotel stationery.





	

**Author's Note:**

> here, have a belated holiday fic featuring my two new sons!
> 
> \--
> 
> it's important to me that you listen to "slow dance" by the tallest man on earth in conjunction with this fic.

The Japanese restaurant with the most stars on Yelp doesn't open until eleven, but that's all right. Yuuri is still sleeping soundly then, as Viktor gets up, gets dressed with the silent speed of a quick change, and scrawls a note in hasty English on a slip of hotel stationery. 

It's snowing softly outside, and Viktor breathes in the Barcelona morning like it’s his first day outside in years. In a way, he thinks, that's true. Everything feels bright and crisp and new this morning: this is the first morning he has seen since he decided to return to skating; this is the first morning he has seen since he woke up next to a silver medalist; this is the first morning he has seen as this new, better version of himself. 

His ring glints nicely in the snowy light. He smiles to himself, takes a picture of his hand against the white sky.  _ Sometimes silver is even better than gold, _ he captions it before posting it to his Instagram. 

He turns up his collar, warmth burning bright in his chest. The streets are decorated for the holidays, wreaths and garlands hugging streetlamps and balconies, and he thinks back to several nights ago, when Yuuri asked what he could get him for his birthday. Viktor’s smile deepens. He couldn't have asked Yuuri to give him  _ this _ \- a sparkling next chapter, the blissful anticipation of everything it will hold - but Yuuri managed it all the same. 

The Japanese restaurant is empty of patrons when he ducks in to pick up his order, looping handles of the plastic bag around his wrist to keep his hands free in his pockets. He stops at a cafe and picks up a coffee for himself and a tea for Yuuri, balances the cardboard tray against the weight of the takeout bag. 

He's almost back to the hotel when a liquor store catches his eye across the street, and a cheeky smile quirks on his lips. Champagne is customary for a celebration - and so timely, the morning after the banquet. 

Last year, he'd woken up alone, laid in bed reliving the events of the night in his head, how for the first time in so long he'd felt a spark in his chest, like the pop of a champagne bottle, a clawing desire for something to make him feel that way off the ice. He'd scouted the remaining skaters for Yuuri at the hotel that morning and hadn't found him, and had instead contented himself with finding his social media accounts, imagining the burst of excitement Yuuri might have felt at seeing his name in his notifications. 

This morning, Viktor woke up with his face pressed into Yuuri’s chest, Yuuri’s arm resting protectively over his back, huddled under white hotel blankets like a cover of snow. Viktor stayed with his head on Yuuri’s chest for a while, listening to the steady assurance of his heartbeat, thinking how lucky he was to be Yuuri’s. 

By the time he returns to the hotel, his Instagram post has over 3,000 likes.

Yuuri is still asleep, splayed out on his side, sunlight warming his face through the window. Viktor’s chest swells, and he sets the hot drinks and takeout on the coffee table. He removes his own order of yakisoba and tucks it into the fridge in the corner of the room, brushes the snow from his hair.  He shucks his coat, scarf, and shoes, and slips back into bed beside Yuuri, careful not to wake him. Yuuri is a heavy sleeper, but sometimes the movement of Viktor getting in or out of bed disturbs him. Viktor chalks it up to Yuuri’s being unused to sharing a bed, still sensitive to the comings and goings of a partner in the night. He finds it endearing - he likes returning from the bathroom, or the window when he can’t sleep, and watching Yuuri roll over, blink at him sleepily and nod an affirmation that things are okay before dropping off again.

He strokes Yuuri’s hair away from his face, smiles when he snuffles a little in his sleep and rolls onto his back. Viktor couldn't possibly rank the levels of affection he feels for Yuuri at any given time of day, in any given situation, but the fondness he feels for Yuuri when he's sleeping ranks pretty high. 

Yuuri exhales, and his eyes flicker open. He looks up at Viktor, his face softening from sleep into a smile, and Viktor feels like his chest might burst from how much he loves him.

“Good morning,” says Yuuri, and Viktor leans down to kiss him.

“Good morning,” says Viktor, propping himself on an elbow. “I brought you something.”

Yuuri makes a thoughtful little sound as he sits up in bed, reaches for his glasses from his nightstand. “I hope it's not footage of something embarrassing I did last night.”

Viktor laughs. “No, you were very well-behaved last night.”

Yuuri scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I was exhausted.”

“I know. I held you up so you could brush your teeth. You're very cute when you're sleepy.”

Yuuri’s cheeks go pink, and Viktor kisses his forehead. “Here's a hint,” he says. “It’s a treat.”

“A treat,” says Yuuri, taking Viktor’s hand and playing with his ring. “What kind of treat?”

Viktor lets his smile go coy. “You haven't had it in a while.”

He can't help but grin full-out as he watches Yuuri’s eyes widen, lips part in realization. “You won a medal,” he says, taking his hand from Yuuri so he can cup his chin. He kisses each of his cheeks, then his nose. “You deserve it.”

Yuuri hums happily, angles Viktor's face to kiss him properly. “It  _ has _ been a long time. I only binged once this season, that's really good. I do deserve this.”

As happy as it makes him to hear Yuuri assert that, Viktor begins backpedaling in his head. Yuuri is strange about food in a way that makes perfect sense to Viktor in context of the way skaters live and eat, but it's also a way he never wants to see Yuuri treat himself. 

“Well,” he says between kisses, “here is the thing. You always deserve it. Even during the season when you're being careful - it doesn't mean you don't deserve to enjoy something.”

Yuuri considers it, shrugs and nods. “I guess so,” he says, and Viktor takes that as enough agreement for now. They'll work on it. His off-season plans include indulging Yuuri whenever he'll let him, helping him work toward understanding that he deserves every ounce of goodness that comes his way. 

Viktor presses another kiss to his cheek, then untangles himself. “Are you hungry now? It should still be warm. I brought you tea, too.”

“Mmm, thank you,” says Yuuri, stretching his arms over his head. “You're very good at this fiancé thing.”

Viktor’s chest goes warm and rosy. “You're very good at making me want to be good at it.”

That makes Yuuri grin, blushing. “Shhh,” he says. “Feed me some katsudon, I'm hungry.”

Viktor hands him his tea first, and Yuuri sips at it as Viktor gets settled beside him with one takeout container and a plastic fork from the bottom of the plastic bag. The restaurant included chopsticks as well, but they still feel so foreign in Viktor’s hands that he decides if he attempts them he'll only make a mess. 

“Your hair is damp,” says Yuuri, switching his tea to his other hand to reach out and stroke at Viktor’s bangs. He pushes it from Viktor’s face, giving his cheek a quick brush with his fingertips before dropping his hand. 

“It was snowing,” says Viktor, nodding toward the window. “Very romantic, it's too bad you slept through it.”

Yuuri’s forehead creases, and Viktor ducks in to kiss him before he has time to worry further. “No, no, I'm glad you slept. You needed it, and I wanted to surprise you.”

Yuuri’s shoulders soften. He scoots closer to Viktor, until their hips are touching. “It was snowing when you came to Hasetsu for the first time.”

Viktor remembers - the climate as familiar as his block in St. Petersburg, the pink of Yuuri’s round cheeks in the cold, the welcoming warmth of the Katsuki house that he could never replicate in his apartment, no matter how high he turned the thermostat. 

“Very romantic of the weather to cooperate with us,” he amends, and Yuuri lays his head on Viktor’s shoulder, smiles. 

“ _я люблю тебя_ ,” he says, clumsily but identifiably, and Viktor, delighted, kisses him full on the mouth. 

“How long have you been practicing that?” he asks, scooping a bite of katsudon onto the fork. 

Yuuri goes pink. “A little while.”

He settles against Viktor’s side, propped up on three hotel pillows, and lets out a soft, blissful moan at the first mouthful Viktor feeds him. Viktor resists the urge to pull him closer and squeeze him, lest he upset the bowl in his lap. “Good?” he asks, and Yuuri nods. 

“Better than I remembered it.”

“I was worried,” says Viktor, dropping his gaze to the bowl and looking up at Yuuri through his eyelashes, giving him a coy little smile, “that it might not be as good, since it's not from home, that they might make it wrong --”

Yuuri smiles too, touches a finger to Viktor’s lips. “This is my first taste of katsudon since medaling at the Grand Prix Final. It’s perfect.”

“You're perfect,” says Viktor, leaning in to touch their noses together. He drops another kiss onto Yuuri’s cheek before feeding him another bite. 

He notices, heart swelling, that Yuuri has sheet marks pressed into his cheek, and with his free hand he leans in to stroke them. “You slept very hard,” he says. “It left a mark.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his tea. “You left some marks on me last night, too.”

Warmth floods Viktor’s stomach, and he gives Yuuri another bite of katsudon, goes hot when Yuuri licks a drop of sauce from his lips. “You bruise very easily.”

Yuuri swallows, leans in to kiss just below his jaw, and Viktor shivers. “Maybe you just kiss very hard,” says Yuuri, accepting another bite. “In America, they have a tradition of hanging mistletoe in houses at the holidays, and if you get caught standing under it with another person, you have to kiss them.”

Viktor squints, searching his mental catalogue for the matching Russian word. “What is mistletoe?”

He pronounces it carefully, syllable by syllable, and Yuuri smiles fondly. “It’s a plant,” he says. “It's kind of like holly?”

“Holly,” says Viktor, the search function of his mental catalogue still whirring.

Yuuri shrugs, resting his chin on the lid of his cup of tea. “They hang up a lot of plants at the holidays. Holly has prickly green leaves and red berries. Mistletoe has little green leaves and white berries.”

“Very interesting,” says Viktor. “And you know this - why?”

Yuuri grins, and Viktor leans in to peck the dimple that sinks into his cheek. “When we lived in America, Phichit really liked learning about their holiday traditions. We had mistletoe all over our apartment. Also holly, but no one makes you kiss under the holly.”

“Mistletoe,” Viktor repeats. “This room does need some plants, don't you think?”

“Like you need more excuses to kiss me,” Yuuri teases. He lets Viktor feed him another mouthful. 

“Incorrect,” says Viktor. “I am always in need of more excuses to kiss you.”

Yuuri slips an arm around Viktor’s waist, pulls him close. “You're good to me,” he says, and Viktor’s chest feels like bursting with light. 

He doesn't know how to say in return:  _ You're better to me than I ever thought possible. You make me realize that I missed many years of being loved. You make me understand that life is something you can sit down at and enjoy instead of skating through, trying to race yourself to the end of it. You make me want to love as fiercely and wholly as I can, for how loved you make me feel.  _

As a rule, Viktor doesn't talk about himself much. Well - he's spent years of his life talking about himself, but in all those interviews, those magazine articles, those web exclusives, he's barely scratched the surface of who he is beneath his carefully constructed and veneered media personality. He hasn't talked about the coldness of his parents, the way they pushed him to develop his talent for skating until he allowed it to consume him, the way they barely knew him once the season ended and he emerged from the tumult of scores and travel, the way they never bothered to try. He hasn't talked about how he moved himself into Yakov’s cramped and spartan apartment in increments of duffel bags, a home perhaps not warmer but more straightforward in its stoicism. He hasn't talked about the long and desperate crying jags, muffled in his pillow so Yakov wouldn't hear. He hasn't talked about the pills he takes to manage himself, one red and one blue every morning to keep himself even and focused. He hasn't talked about the lowest he's felt, like he was trapped in a room that kept getting smaller, water rising toward his nose, overwhelmed by an urge to let himself drown. 

He has told Yuuri all of these things, sitting up in a hotel bed in Moscow the night before the Rostelecom Cup. Yuuri did not interrupt, like the interviewers always did. He didn't try to steer Viktor away from the most difficult details, didn't flinch when Viktor’s voice wavered, just listened with soft eyes and a hand clutching Viktor’s. 

He'd hugged Viktor once he'd finished speaking, silently opened his arms and gathered Viktor in, held him so tight that Viktor could feel both of their heartbeats, a call and response:  _ Hello? I'm here. Hello? I'm here.  _

Now, Viktor settles the bowl of katsudon between his thighs, pulls Yuuri in and braces a hand behind his head. He presses a long kiss just below the part in Yuuri’s hair, takes a deep breath, feels his chest expand.

“ _я люблю тебя_ ,” he whispers. “Are you still hungry, _моя любовь_?”

Yuuri nods against him. 

“Very good,” says Viktor, smoothing Yuuri’s hair from his forehead. He waits for Yuuri to rearrange the pillows behind him, then feeds him another bite, wipes a bit of tonkatsu sauce from his lips with the edge of his thumb. 

“So,” he says. “What do you do for Christmas? It is very Christmas outside. In Russia we are in church all day. Church for hours.”

Yuuri wrinkles his nose, chewing. “We don’t do that. We see our families, we eat fried chicken -”

“Fried chicken,” says Viktor, pausing with the fork halfway to Yuuri’s mouth. “Why?”

Yuuri considers it as he finishes his tea, hands Viktor the empty cup. “I don't know,” he says. “That's just … what we do.”

“Very interesting,” says Viktor, setting the cup on the nightstand.. “I am very intrigue by this.”

“Intrigued,” says Yuuri, gently. 

Viktor nods. “Intrigued, yes.”

“Well, you'll get to see for yourself this year, won't you?” says Yuuri, tracing his fingers along Viktor’s thigh. “You'll come back to Hasetsu with me for Christmas? We’ll celebrate your birthday too, of course. If - if you want to, of course.”

This isn't the first time Yuuri has brought this up, but it's the first time he's done so directly. He's a master at talking around things, avoiding direct confrontation whenever possible.  _ Hasetsu is very nice at Christmas _ , he's said.  _ The hot springs are a good way to relax when it starts getting cold. I know you said you don’t celebrate your birthday much, but I'd be happy to do something if you wanted to.  _

Viktor’s seen pictures of Yuuri’s birthdays, when he was younger - the Katsuki living room is loaded with albums of Yuuri and Mari as children, one per year of their life. The albums for the past five years of Yuuri’s are pitifully thin, cobbled together with what appear to be photos lifted from the internet while he was still skating, or from his social media feeds. (“I got those for her,” said Mari over his shoulder one day, pointing. “I have a Google alert set for him.” She hadn’t known the English words for  _ Google alert _ ; she’d gestured abstractly for a moment, then taken out her phone and shown him an email:  _ Google alert - Katsuki Yuuri _ .) 

Viktor has either flipped through all of Yuuri’s albums on his own or been guided through them by Hiroko. He’s watched Yuuri grow taller and rounder and slimmer and rounder and then slimmer again through the years. In each album, there’s a picture of him grinning behind a cake and candles - although the last several years include a bowl of katsudon with one candle instead of a cake. Yuuko and Takeshi appear with him for most of his younger years, then fade in and out as he gets older. Mari is a constant; so is the parent who isn’t taking the photo - usually Hiroko, but sometimes Toshiya. In the albums for the years Yuuri spent in Detroit, he’s sitting behind a box of cupcakes with candles in each one, which Viktor has to imagine was Phichit’s doing. In each photo, it’s clear that his birthday wasn’t an afterthought, was tailored to Yuuri’s preference for small gatherings rather than raucous nights out. It’s been years since anyone offered to celebrate Viktor’s birthday beyond getting drunk with him.

Now, Viktor lifts Yuuri’s right hand to his lips, kisses his ring. “I would like that,” he says. “We can eat fried chicken, yes?”

Yuuri laughs. “Sure. It’ll be Christmas Day, we always get plenty.”

“Perfect,” says Viktor. “Maybe you can feed me, instead.”

He grins at Yuuri’s blush, and saves him from stammering a response by offering him another bite of katsudon, then another.

When the bowl is empty, Yuuri sinks back into his pillows, rests a hand on his belly. “That was so good,” he says slowly, and Viktor laughs at how blissed-out he sounds. “Thank you,” he continues. “Did you get anything for yourself?”

Viktor nods, setting the bowl and fork on his nightstand and stretching out beside Yuuri. “Yakisoba,” he says. “It’s in the fridge, I’ll have some later. Japanese food in Barcelona is very strange.”

“I can only imagine,” says Yuuri, closing his eyes. “They did a good job with the katsudon, though. I’m stuffed.”

Viktor props himself on an elbow and slips his fingertips beneath the hem of Yuuri’s t-shirt, teasing at the soft, stubborn roll of pudge that Yuuri can’t seem to lose, no matter how hard he trains. He camouflages it with Spanx when he skates, but Viktor likes it, how comfortable and yielding it is. He spreads his palm over the warm skin and rubs at it gently, the way he rubs Yuuri’s back after panic attacks. Yuuri makes a little sound of pleasure.

“Mmmm,” he says. “That feels nice.”

Viktor squishes a little of Yuuri’s pudge between his fingers. “Do you feel … luxurious?”

Yuuri nods, a happy little sigh escaping him. “Very much.”

“Good.” Viktor rolls Yuuri’s shirt up a little farther and presses a kiss onto his belly. Yuuri squirms, and Viktor smiles, running his fingers over the small purple marks on the soft skin. “I guess I did leave some bruises,” he says, looking up at Yuuri. “More than I remember.”

Yuuri laughs, rolls his hips gently. “You were very enthusiastic.”

“I’m a huge fan of yours,” says Viktor, grinning. “Haven’t you noticed?”

With a soft grunt, Yuuri leans forward to kiss Viktor on the lips. “Oh, I’ve noticed,” he says, stroking Viktor’s jawline with the pad of his thumb. “You showed up at my house out of nowhere because you had such a crush on me, didn’t you?”

Instead of butterflies in his stomach, Viktor thinks, he has seagulls, born from the coast of St. Petersburg or Hasetsu or maybe Barcelona, now. Born from his pining, browsing Yuuri’s Twitter and Instagram alone in his apartment. Born from lying on the floor of Yuuri’s bedroom, listening to him breathe, wondering what Yuuri thought of him. Born from the fondness that glowed throughout his whole body watching Yuuri perform, seeing Yuuri’s pink cheeks and curls of breath in the Spanish winter. 

His seagulls flap and caw, now, his affection for Yuuri rolling in like the tide. “I had such a crush on you,” he agrees. “It’s still the anniversary of that crush, I think.”

Yuuri blushes. “I like today better than I liked today last year.”

Viktor settles against him, drapes an arm over Yuuri’s belly and tucks his head against his chest, riding those waves of devotion. “Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> apparently according to canon, viktor is completely fluent in english, but i did not know that when i wrote the bulk of this fic so for the sake of argument, let's say ... what if he's _not_


End file.
